Passing Tents
hideaways of towels and sheets draped across a kitchen table;
Indian tipis of leftover lumber wrapped with stained sheets;
Boy Scout pup tents that did little to keep out the chill or rain;
cabin tents with wooden floors with half a family on vacation;
heavy canvas big tops hoisted by roustabouts and elephants;
plastic hooches in Vietnam, two ponchos and cut bamboo;
buryuut hajar, “houses of hair,” with MSF in the Near East.
Tents of the present:
encampments of patchwork cardboard, tarps and plastic sheets,
razed by outcries of the well-off, with no interest in tents;
watching his world disappear under a bulldozer’s blade;
his destitution becoming more than just physical loss;
a state of mind girdling bleakness of the future and
recollections of the past, as the machine’s blade
kills more than tent, camp and memories.
Indian tipis of leftover lumber wrapped with stained sheets;
Boy Scout pup tents that did little to keep out the chill or rain;
cabin tents with wooden floors with half a family on vacation;
heavy canvas big tops hoisted by roustabouts and elephants;
plastic hooches in Vietnam, two ponchos and cut bamboo;
buryuut hajar, “houses of hair,” with MSF in the Near East.
Tents of the present:
encampments of patchwork cardboard, tarps and plastic sheets,
razed by outcries of the well-off, with no interest in tents;
watching his world disappear under a bulldozer’s blade;
his destitution becoming more than just physical loss;
a state of mind girdling bleakness of the future and
recollections of the past, as the machine’s blade
kills more than tent, camp and memories.
Lower Coos River
The river meanders towards Coos Bay
in almost bayou-like curves and twists,
sinuous as ribbon candy, but deadly:
old hulks, grounded and rotting, on
ox-bow bars; mooring piles driven
into the mud, barely identify the
river’s current course in the fog.
At night even intermittent lights,
reds and greens, can’t mark the
channel in the blanketing fog,
ricocheting glows confusing:
you’d be aground before they
came into view, all except for
old-timers, noting the widening
vees of river current on each pile,
as the patterns of geese change,
more adept than local guardsmen.
Farther down, the river gains
depth and breadth, becomes
madam to upstream whores,
welcoming inbound, as lumber
freighters crowd the GP and
Weyerhaeuser docks, and tugs
churn up such wakes that low-
lying islands are constantly
swamped, scattering shore
birds out over the broad
expanse under the bridge,
over the bar, and out to sea;
as salt tears mix with sweat.
in almost bayou-like curves and twists,
sinuous as ribbon candy, but deadly:
old hulks, grounded and rotting, on
ox-bow bars; mooring piles driven
into the mud, barely identify the
river’s current course in the fog.
At night even intermittent lights,
reds and greens, can’t mark the
channel in the blanketing fog,
ricocheting glows confusing:
you’d be aground before they
came into view, all except for
old-timers, noting the widening
vees of river current on each pile,
as the patterns of geese change,
more adept than local guardsmen.
Farther down, the river gains
depth and breadth, becomes
madam to upstream whores,
welcoming inbound, as lumber
freighters crowd the GP and
Weyerhaeuser docks, and tugs
churn up such wakes that low-
lying islands are constantly
swamped, scattering shore
birds out over the broad
expanse under the bridge,
over the bar, and out to sea;
as salt tears mix with sweat.
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in Southern California with his wife of forty-seven years, Sally (upon whom he is emotionally, physically, and spiritually dependent), two grown children, a daughter-in-law, two granddaughters, and sixteen cats! Don’t ask. Like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, he believes that the instant contains eternity.